


A Song Strange

by Fadesintothewest



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:58:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3121028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fadesintothewest/pseuds/Fadesintothewest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Lotrangel17s as part of the 2014 Lord of the Ring Secret Santa.</p><p>Elrond meets Legolas and finds that the young elf has something to share with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Song Strange

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lotrangel17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrangel17/gifts).



Elrond watched Thranduil’s youngest with great interest. Thranduil had kept his youngest away from curious eyes, that is, away from the devices of Noldorin influence. And rightly so. Thranduil was weary of Noldorin influence. Elrond laughed to himself, thinking of his old friend, for Thranduil was a friend, though there had been bad blood between them as well. Theirs was a relationship that harkened back to the early days of Elven history, simmering and brutish, as well as prideful and loving, a relic of the First Age. At least it seemed that way to Elrond. The elves surrounding him in Imladris, while joyful, did not share the same temperament of days past. Indeed the long march of time had tempered Elven disposition. Now elves were more likely to sit and contemplate the days gone, the memories friends and lovers who walked the Halls of Mandos or who had long sailed. Indeed the age of his people was coming to an end, and the age of his brother Elros’ chosen folk on the horizon, though to mortal men that day would not come for many a lifetime. But for elven sense of time, it was as the blink of an eye.

 

Elrond too tired at times, the pain of Celebrian’s westward journey a wound he tended with great care. But Elrohir, Elladan and Arwen’s joy was infectious as well. They were yet tethered to middle earth, joyous of the world around them. Their spirit of place eased Elrond. Erestor and Glorfindel also kept the elder elf company, a grumpy company of sorts that had witnessed the great ages come to a close and give way to new History. Their time was not yet come to an end on Middle Earth. The horizon of wars to come menaced like a dark figure at the edges of sight, slippery and shadowy.

 

But Thranduil’s youngest was entirely new to Elrond, an unexpected creature that filled him with a curiosity now so alien to Elrond, he almost forgot it a feeling of his as a child, as a wily youth. Legolas was so much like his father, but also like his mother. Elueth, Thranduil’s queen, was a strange being, at least to his Noldorin sensibilities- a wood elf that exuded a different elven sensibility full of middle earth’s magic. Yet something about her also reminded Elrond of those elves he remembered, those elves now stored away in tomes that resided in his vast library, tomes that whispered questions in Elrond’s mind. Were any of his fathers yet reborn or were they truly doomed to wander aimlessly as bodiless spirits, the Doom of the Noldor? But not Thranduil’s wife. She was brash, prideful, beautiful and joyful, the blisses of Middle Earth filling her soul with that strange earthen song only the wood elves seemed to be able to tend. Indeed, whenever Elrond tried to nurture the strange Wood song, he would come away feeling as if he’d drunk too much of the strong Dorwinion Thranduil favoured.

 

Elrond’s smile dissolved into contemplation while he spied the youngest of Thranduil’s children carefully making his way about the garden, weaving that special Green harmony with the Life that was rooted to Endórë. A chill crept up Elrond’s back as he tried to concentrate on the Song. He caught his breath, falling back into his seat. He’d never experienced that Green wood song so intimately. It was in that moment that he understood why this song was not meant for him. What a strange song, a song that blended the growing things rooted in middle earth with the waters and clouds that harmonized the seasons. Yet there was also something else: the whisper of elves dead that chose not to heed the call of Mandos. It was somewhat disconcerting to the elder elf. This finiteness, this end, truly unknown to Elrond, was a cause of anxiety and some fear. That Thranduil managed to weave himself into this Song was testament of the Sindar’s desire to bind himself to the wood elves, to his wife, to the Greenwood. Legolas was truly of the Wood.

 

~*~*~*~*~*

Legolas felt a prickle of energy tickle his fingertips. He paused from his ministrations with the carefully tended flowers, flowers that did not succumb to the slumber of winter in Elrond’s valley. Certainly it was not the delicate flowers that cascaded over an elaborate wood trellis that caused disharmony, Legolas mused. A whoosh like water falling over a mountain filled his ears, further disorienting him. From above, one of the many voices in the song whispered to Legolas.

 

Legolas turned up towards the First Homely House. A statue peered down at him. Legolas recognized it as Celebrian, a crown of winterberries woven into an evergreen garland upon Celebrian’s stone head, the only sign of life upon the still statue.  This must have been her garden, Legolas gathered. Strange it was that the Noldor would erect a statue that would only remind of her loss. His father had warned him that the Noldor were a strange and melancholic cousin. Legolas was, in that moment, glad for his youth, glad for the fire of his people that did not succumb to the same yearning of distant lands and ages past. For him, for the Wood elves, home was here. There was no yearning for a home across the sea, for home was the Greenwood. The _Tawarwait_ h were not given to dwell on those that had gone for their very essence surrounded them in the trees that towered like giants reaching towards Elbereth’s stars, trees that held Silvan homes amongst their branches. It was why there was also immense sorrow amongst the elves of the Wood when the forest sickened with darkness, the forest that was made of those who had died defending it. Few of Legolas’ people chose to go the Halls of Mandos, choosing the path of regeneration, of being born anew in the greens of grass, the waters raging in rivers, and the flowers that filled the meadows by his home.

 

Legolas thought of his home. They would be preparing for Yuletide. The hearth of the great hall lit with a roaring fire that would rage on until the longest night came to an end. Legolas closed his eyes and found himself on the traditional Yuletide hunts. The thick snow lent a peaceful silence to the hunt, the scent of the stag like a candle beckoning far off in the night. An arrow would pierce its heart, a crimson blanket covering the pristine snow.  A prayer would guide the deer to its mothers, to join in the long line of life, and become Song. Death was not strange for the wood elf. Death meant life for the Wood. The deer would choose to say in the forest even in death, the blood seeping into the earth, the meat feeding the elves and the creatures that partook of it, and its spirit released to the Melody of the Great Wood would be added and all would hear it and be glad for this new voice.  

 

Yet not all chose this fate. Indeed his grandfather Oropher did not so commit: too much of the Journey shaped his being. And Oropher’s desire to see his kin bid him to be welcomed into the Dead Houses across the Sundering Seas. This was Legolas’ bane- that his family was so divided in death. Though Legolas did not believe his father would meet the same fate of Oropher, it scared him to think that Thranduil would cross over, but was not his father’s love for his mother too great to be parted in life or death? Legolas’ mother, Elueth, would never cross over. Legolas shook himself out of his reverie. No, that would not be the fate of Elueth or Thranduil. They would live and grow the Wood back into Greenness, mending the forest from cavernous root to the tops of the forest where birds and butterflies tended the treetops. Legolas did not doubt his place in the delicate and wondrous web of life woven around him. He was _Tawarwaith_ of the wood. The Song of the Dead was not a fear, but a source of comfort that joined in the melody of Life, for truly there was not death, but regeneration. The song was indeed beautiful. And though more muted in Elrond’s valley, it was nevertheless present here in Imladris. The stone buildings could not mute the Song. Instead the stone work lovingly held the melody in its womb of rock, weaving it into the Mountain Song, Earth Song. Legolas breathed in, taking in the wonder of Middle Earth. Oh joy and beauty, what a divine gift to be in this moment!

 

Such was the capacity of whimsy of a wood elf, to find one’s self melancholic only to stumble upon the most delightful of joy.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Elrond recovered himself enough to resume his watch of the sprite that had taken residence in his wife’s garden. He was a thing of beauty, like a young tree, tall and strong, bendable, stronger than the winds of the storms. Very unlike the broad build of the Noldor that were more akin to stones, that bore the winds of time and change differently, but his people were worn down, like the mountains that rise and fall.

 

“Older than mountains,” Elrond mused aloud.

 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Legolas was startled, surprised by the sound of the voice that drifted down from the balcony above. Legolas spun around to catch sight of Lord Elrond who stood looking down on him lost in his own Song, a strange song that seemed to cling to memory.

 

“’Tis strange that memory and twilight are one in the same in this moment,” Legolas replied, curious about these new melodies he was encountering amongst the Noldorin enclave.

 

Elrond smiled, a strange and aged smile, his eyes revealing their weariness. “Older than mountains,” he repeated.

 

Legolas peered directly into Elrond’s deep eyes, searching them. “Your weariness is strange to me.” he continued, “it seems that the passage of time does not nourish you, but forgive my silly and bold request, I would rather you join me amongst these flowers than me join you surrounded by volumes of history that seem too much a weight.”

 

Legolas’ forthrightness was like a soothing balm to Elrond’s old soul. “Of course,” Elrond chuckled, accepting the request from Legolas. Descending the stairs into the garden Elrond came to stand in front of Legolas who had not taken his eyes off him. “Tell me Legolas,” Elrond resumed, “are you always so curious?”

 

Legolas had the grace to blush. “Pardon me Lord Elrond, it’s just that--” Legolas paused, reigning in his wood elf ways, remembering his councilor’s advise that the Noldor liked to dance around subjects rather than speak to the heart of a matter.

 

“What drives your curiosity, Legolas?” Elrond urged the younger elf to continue, quietly dispelling Legolas’ hesitance.

 

 “It’s just that your Song, your melody, is…how shall I put it,” Legolas searched for words. “Your song seems distant and lonely.”

 

Elrond’s eyes softened. Of course Legolas would hear it. He knew that the wood elves were an observant and sensitive people, but Elrond had not been careful to close himself to Legolas. Elrond wished he could truly hear the wood elf’s song but knew that he would find it disconcerting, a melody that was too much like fear and the unknown. Elrond sighed, sweeping away leaves that had gathered in the hands of one of the many statues that stood in eternal wait in Celebrian’s garden. “My Song is tethered to a past,” Elrond murmured, “to a place, to a people that had a Doom about them young one. Surely you know this history?”

 

“I do,” Legolas answered, not intimidated to be talking to a living relic of elven history. “I know of the Doom you speak for that Doom wedded itself to my father’s kin.” Legolas turned to look up at the ever-watchful statue of Celebrian. “Does it not fill you with joy that you will see her again when you sail?”

 

Elrond laughed at Legolas’ lack of the social mores that governed the etiquette of his home. Also looking up at the statue of Celebrian, Elrond answered, “I miss Celebrian. I miss her dearly, but I miss more than her and I am burdened by more than that.”

 

Legolas carefully studied Elrond, watching as his brows furrow together, how his lips were drawn into tight lines. Gently, Legolas extended his hand to touch the Noldorin Lord, wanting, curious like a cat, to be filled by this strange elf’s Song.  Elrond examined Legolas tentatively reach out to him, his fingers searching for permission to listen. Elrond assented with a nod of his head, but he did not expect that while Legolas would hear his Song he too would share in the wood elf’s song. It was a gentle murmur, a mere whisper. Elrond leaned forward, trying to catch the wood elf’s elusive song. Or was Legolas weaving fey wood magic over Elrond, luring him close, so close he could feel Legolas’ breath on his lips.

 

Legolas offered a demure smile, closing his eyes, focusing on the Elrond’s Song. Elrond responded in kind, closing his eyes, relaxing into the warm melodies, the merging of his own song with Legolas’ song. While the Wood Song harbored some fear for Elrond, it was tempered by Legolas who dulled the notes that were most alien to Elrond’s mind. But Legolas did no such thing with Elrond’ song. He drank it, plunged into its depths, stretched the melody to feel it from the inside, riding every current, every ripple and color of the Song. Elrond’s song was loneliness, but also full of a great love and peace. It was imbued with a patience and melancholy born from the ravages of time, the onslaught of memory. Elrond’s melody reminded Legolas of his grandmother’s Song, yet Elrond’s was yet young compared to his grandmother, one of the Unbegotten who had chosen not to Journey west. Her song harkened to beginnings and to life and to greenness and the everlasting hope of renewal.

 

Elrond’s song, on the other hand, was like a lament. And there, yes, there was the famed Noldolantë, the lament Elrond’s foster father, Maglor composed, chronicling the fall of the Noldor. Elrond’s song held the history of his people on Middle Earth. It held the stories of the passage over ice, of the fiery hearts and minds of the descendants of Finwë, of birds taking flight, and a father’s charioting ship in the skies. Elrond’s song was history, and it was sorrowful, but that did not have to be. The solitude of Elrond’s melody was Elrond’s alone and so it could be tempted to wander towards harmonizing more effortlessly with other notes, to join, and mingle despair with hope, to allow the joys of his children to raise him up. Legolas delighted in the songs of Elrond’s children, strong and vibrant, uniquely half-elven, waiting to hold their father up upon their broad, strong shoulders. Their melodies hovered at the edges of Elrond’s song, waiting for their fate to be decided.  

 

Elrond heard his own personal melody like a symphony that painted the history of his life in vivid strokes. Faces of long gone loves emerged out of darkness and were woven to life in the melody of his song. It brought tears to his eyes, to commune so closely to places and people he had pocketed away in the recesses of memory.  The fate of his children was sung into being, a choice they had before them that he could no longer ignore. Elrond’s song quieted again, the melodies of another Song becoming more pronounced.

 

Slowly, Legolas allowed his own Song to build in Elrond’s mind, paying attention to the subtle cues of Elrond’s body. Legolas did not want to overwhelm the Noldor Lord, but he knew if he could merge some of his own song with that of Elrond, then maybe Elrond would find some relief from the long march of time that weighed on him and the Doom of the Noldor that reached out through the beginnings of exodus.

 

Elrond took a deep breath, the sensation of Legolas’ Song becoming more intense. The strangeness of the wood elf’s song was no longer intolerable. Legolas carefully orchestrated the notes so they would gently introduce themselves in Elrond’s mind, a note here of evergreen magic, a note there of the earth slumbering under a thick blanket of snow, a note of a majestic stag breathing its last breaths, receding into the hint of a of light refracted across the stars of Varda.

 

Suddenly the melody exploded in a crescendo of colors inside Elrond. The life of the stag gone, but in his place a river beyond time, a river that surged with the spirit of ëa, a river that poured into the roots of middle earth, becoming earth, fire, stone, water-the very essence of Endórë. In this moment, Elrond felt an incredible peace, sensing momentarily the certainty that though his children might be parted from him in body, whether in death or the end of Arda, they would meet again in the Great Music of Ilúvatar.  

 

Recognizing Elrond’s journey into peace, Legolas allowed the voices of elves long gone, voices that were transformed into tree, root, and stone, into the fawn, a chirping baby bird, to surge and fill the stretches of Elrond’s being. Elrond flinched as the melody grew in density. The dam that held back the fullness of the strange Wood Song broke through, the fear of uncertainty melting away, revealing melodies of regeneration. It was a strange fate, a strange song, rendered beautiful through Legolas.

 

Elrond opened his eyes to find Legolas looking upon him with a tenderness and compassion that spoke volumes of Legolas’ heart. Apprehensively, Legolas wiped the tears from Elrond’s cheeks, his fingertips pausing, hovering over Elrond’s skin. Elrond did not move away from the younger elf’s caress. Instead, Elrond found himself pressing into Legolas’ touch, desiring more of the intimacy of Song that had been shared. But the heat of their skin, the quickening of their hearts, hinted at a different type of intimacy, a desire invested in bodies. Legolas leaned in closer to Elrond, his eyes wide, searching Elrond’s face to find the same desire reflected in the elder elf’s eyes. Elrond’s lips were soft, his breath a warm breeze that Legolas greedily breathed in. At first the kiss was gentle and searching, each testing the desires of the other. Apprehension gave way to the demands of desire. Hands roamed bodies, explored heretofore forbidden territories. Fingers hastily removed clothes, exposing skin that sizzled with a lover’s touch.

 

Elrond lost himself in the younger elf’s suppleness, his desire filling his body, stretching, exploding, until he no longer could contain the elements of his being in body. Elrond was lost in the warmth of Legolas, searching him deep inside, moving and loosing the boundaries between them. Legolas welcomed him, expertly led him to explore the contours of his body, the inside that only intimacy could color so vividly, so expansively, so boldly! Elrond cried out, spilling, careening over the edge, inside of Legolas. Legolas surrounded Elrond’s warmth with his own needs, finding the limits of his passion as it exploded into the universe of creation, a bodily union that dissipated from the heights of ecstasy back into the garden in the Last Homely House.

 

Elrond looked into Legolas’ eyes, the blacks of his eyes still large from arousal. “Thank you Legolas.” He could say no more. The Noldorin Lord was at a loss for words. Legolas reached his arms around Elrond, leaning his forehead against Elrond’s. The two stayed in each other’s embrace, a new melody added to the Song that ebbed and flowed around them. It was beautiful, a sort of miracle, Elrond believed. For Legolas, it was not a miracle, simply a gentle acknowledgement of the beauty and simplicity of life.

 

No more words were spoken on that day

 

 


End file.
